


Unforgivable

by draculard



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Dom Hermione Granger, Dubious Consent, F/F, Forced strip tease, Hint of hint of stalking, Imperius curse, Masturbation, Sub Pansy Parkinson, Voyeurism, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 15:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17870231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Hermione's been thinking lately that the prefects' bathroom may be the perfect place for a tryst.





	Unforgivable

There are certain benefits to being a prefect, and one of them is the bathroom. The charm on the door prevents other prefects from entering while someone else is inside, but it doesn’t stop two prefects from entering together, if they so choose.

Or if one of them, Hermione, so chooses, and Pansy doesn’t have a choice.

With her wand out and Pansy disarmed, Hermione frog-marches Pansy into the bathroom, up to the sink. She pins her there with a muttered hex.

“Granger--” Pansy snarls, and with one swift movement, Hermione slams the other girl’s head against the porcelain. Pansy lets out a muffled squeal, and when she lifts her head again, there’s a small smear of red left on the sink.

“I know you’ve been spying on me,” Hermione says primly. She keeps her wand poking at Pansy’s back, with just enough force to make it hurt, make sure Pansy doesn’t forget it’s there. “Why?”

Pansy spits into the sink. Blood is trickling from her nose down into her open mouth. “I haven’t been,” she says.

Well, that’s a lie. Hermione knows when she’s being spied on. She twists her wand harder against Pansy’s back, and a bit of malevolence leaks through like electricity. Pansy jerks away, thrusting herself harder against the sink.

“Tell the truth, Pansy,” says Hermione. She catches sight of her reflection in the mirror and pauses to fix her posture. She might have caught Pansy rolling her eyes at that, but she isn’t sure.

“I’m not spying on you,” Pansy snarls, turning her face away. “I have better things to do with my time.”

This time, the spark of electricity from Hermione’s wand is more deliberate. It travels up Pansy’s spine, making her writhe as much as she can when she’s glued in place by the hex. She’s wracked with tremors even after Hermione cuts the current off, and she hasn’t yet rode them out when Hermione leans close, her lips against Pansy’s ear.

“You’ve been watching me in here, haven’t you?” Hermione asks.

She can feel the chill that goes through Pansy’s body.

“Watching me masturbate in the tub?” Hermione whispers. Her body is pressed closed against Pansy’s, warmth leaking through her clothes. Pansy goes still finally, her face slack, eyes dull. For a moment, Hermione is almost worried, but then the life comes back to Pansy’s face in an instant as she snarls,

“So what if I have been?”

Hermione stays pressed against Pansy a second longer, then pulls away. “So you’ve been getting a free show,” she says, “and I’ve been getting nothing. Don’t you think that’s unfair?”

Pansy’s breath catches. The hex allows her enough room to turn her head and look over her shoulder at Hermione, eyes wide.

Hermione smiles. She can see how unperturbed she looks in the mirror, but inside she’s trembling -- excited and nauseated and afraid all at once. The back burners of her brain are racing to tie up the ethical issues of what she’s about to do into a nice, moral little bundle that she can reconcile with her image of herself -- but they’re not working fast enough, because now her arm is raising, and intent is singing through every nerve of her body, and she hears herself say,

“ _Imperio_.”

Her immobilization hex is negated. Pansy stands and faces Hermione, trembling. She says nothing, and Hermione swallows hard. Her eyes move down Pansy’s body -- her bare knees, visible through her open robes, her black skirt, her green bobby socks.

“Take off your robes,” Hermione says. Her voice is soft and utterly foreign to her ears; it broaches no disagreement.

Without hesitation, Pansy slips her arms out of her robes and drops them to the bathroom floor.

“Into the tub,” Hermione commands, flicking her wand toward the enormous, empty tub in the middle of the room. Pansy is walking before Hermione even completes the gesture, and Hermione watches her go. She can’t help but notice how Pansy walks with her head held high, her jaw clenched, her dignity intact.

 _For now_ , says a dark voice in Hermione’s head. And then,

_Oh, Merlin. What am I doing?_

Standing in the tub, Pansy looks to Hermione for further instruction. There’s a downright murderous glare on her face.

Hermione steadies herself with a deep breath. “Take your blouse off,” she says. “And your bra.”

Pansy doesn’t hurry. Her fingers linger on the buttons, starting from the bottom up and pausing to loosen her Slytherin tie before she slides the shirt down off her shoulders, revealing the plain black bra beneath. It’s a sharp contrast to her pale skin. Pansy’s eyes sear into Hermione’s as she reaches behind herself and undoes the clasp. She pulls the straps down, revealing her breasts with a defiant casualness that takes Hermione’s breath away.

Pansy’s nipples are a soft, pale pink, just a little hard from the cold air. She drops the bra on the ground next to her shirt and kicks both of them away.

She leaves her tie on. Because she wasn’t specifically ordered to remove it, Hermione realizes, and her lips quirk into a smile. Pansy’s lips quirk, too, and the sight of that sets Hermione’s heart thumping wildly. Maybe some of her emotion shows on her face, because the next second, that tiny smile is gone.

“Do you want this?” Hermione asks, and curses herself for asking. She scowls at Pansy a little, trying to act like her question isn’t genuine concern. Pansy gives her a sarcastic look.

“You’re not gonna order me to say yes?”

Hermione doesn’t answer. Her throat is dry, her wand pointed levelly at Pansy’s face. Pansy eyes it for a moment, her lips lifting again, ever-so-slightly. Then her dark eyes are on Hermione’s, lit by a spark.

“No,” Pansy says. “I don’t want this. But you’re not going to stop, are you?”

Slowly, Hermione lets out a deep breath through her nose. When she speaks, her voice is firm.

“No. Lick your fingers.”

Pansy lifts her hand to her mouth. She doesn’t break eye contact as her tongue pokes out, lavishing each finger with far more attention than Hermione’s command required. When each and every one has had its turned being sucked, she holds them out for Hermione to see and tilts her head, waiting for more.

“Touch your breasts,” Hermione says, and Pansy barks out a laugh.

“My _breasts?_ ” she says. “You sound like a fucking textbook. Say _tits_ like a normal person.”

Still, she’s obeying the command, wet fingers circling each nipple. Hermione doesn’t say stop, so Pansy doesn’t, and they stare at each other in silence as Pansy’s nipples harden even further, and a flush rises up her pale chest to her cheeks.

“Getting warmer?” Hermione says, voice neutral.

“Fuck off.”

Hermione switches her wand to her left hand and keeps it trained on Pansy. Her other hand disappears into her robes, questing down her blouse, to the waistband of her skirt. Pansy’s gaze follows it for a moment and then flicks back up to Hermione’s face, eyes cold.

“Lift your skirt,” Hermione says. “I want to see what you’re wearing underneath.”

Hidden by her robes, she shoves her hand into her underwear and cups herself, watching intently as Pansy rucks her skirt up around her waist and gives Hermione a clear view of her panties. They’re red plaid, which doesn’t match her bra or her uniform, and for some reason that makes Hermione smile.

“Cute,” she says. Pansy sneers at her.

“So glad you approve.”

Hermione shrugs one shoulder. Her index finger finds her clit and she presses down, relishing the pleasurable buzz that radiates upward to her stomach. She licks her lips, drinking in Pansy -- everything about her. Her tousled hair, the dried blood under her nose, the dark circles under her eyes. Her hard nipples, her flushed cheeks, the red triangle of her underwear standing out against her skin.

“Take them off,” Hermione says. Pansy pushes them down to her knees, where they reach the bobby socks, and Hermione says, “Stop. There. That’s fine.”

Slowly, Pansy straightens again. Unlike Hermione, she’s completely bare between her legs; she must use a depilatory spell, because her skin looks smooth and bare and utterly natural. She catches something in Hermione’s hungry stare and smirks at her, lifting her chin.

“Like what you see?” Pansy asks.

Hermione doesn’t answer that. She rubs at herself, feels herself already getting wet -- when she’s alone, it takes much longer than this.

“You’ve seen me touching myself in the tub,” Hermione says, her voice even. “Now it’s your turn.”

Pansy doesn’t move. Her eyes are cold -- the Imperius doesn’t recognize Hermione’s words as a command.

“Touch yourself,” Hermione says.

Pansy’s lip curls and she complies. There’s a mocking tint to her glare as she runs a finger down her smooth, bare lips. With two fingers, she spreads them apart, showing Hermione exactly how pink she is, exactly how wet. Hermione’s eyes are glued to Pansy’s clit; it’s flushed a dark color and it sticks out, longer than Hermione’s -- she could almost describe it as erect, like a man’s dick.

Pansy runs her fingers down where Hermione can’t see them, and they come back glistening wet. She spreads the wetness along her clit until it’s visibly slick.

Nonverbally, Hermione ends the Imperius Curse. She keeps her wand trained on Pansy, giving no outward indication that anything has changed.

“Go on,” she says. “Don’t stop.”

Eyes closing, Pansy reaches down with her left hand, slipping two fingers inside of herself. The other hand works at her clit, slipping off it when she goes too fast. For a moment, she stumbles, leaning back against the cool porcelain of the tub.

“I want to see you orgasm,” Hermione says, almost soundlessly. Pansy’s breath hitches. Her left wrist twists a little as she moves her fingers, curling them inside of her. She pressed down hard on her clit and her hips buck, making her skirt slip back down. Without being ordered to, she pushes it back up to her waist and keeps going.

Inside of her robes, Hermione presses down harder, gritting her teeth. She works her own clit almost violently, relishing the friction, but it’s all automatic -- all her attention is concentrated on Pansy, and on keeping her wand arm up.

“Fuck,” Pansy breathes, hair falling over her face. She adjusts her left hand, forcing a third finger inside. Her hand is slick down to the wrist. “Granger--”

“Come for me,” says Hermione, and yes, it’s an order. The curse is no longer in action but Pansy’s entire body goes rigid, her cheeks glowing, muscles tightening around her hand. A rosy flush has spread over her from head to toe, settling hardest over her collarbones. Her nipples are fully erect and look darker than they were before.

Hermione doesn’t give her much time to recover. She steps forward, lowering her wand, and turns on the taps. Gushes of warm water cover Pansy before she can even open her eyes and she startles, looking around with a hazy expression. Torrents of soap bubbles and expensive perfumes fill the bath quickly, and Hermione and Pansy lock eyes, one inside the bath, one out.

“Clean yourself up,” Hermione says.

Pansy smiles.


End file.
